


Sorrow of the Mourning

by brightem28



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Some Humor, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26881627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightem28/pseuds/brightem28
Summary: You must never follow the weeping sounds at night. You must never look, Merlin.. . .Arthur has started his reign as king with Merlin by his side despite the growing nature of their relationship. However, when a haunting descends on Camelot's front steps, it's Merlin who is most affected by the ghost's cries.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 95





	Sorrow of the Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> **See end notes for trigger warnings!**  
>  Hi folks - here's some spooky vibes for the spooky season! This is completely unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

Silence, Merlin thinks, is something he never truly understood before he arrived at Camelot.

As he lay in bed, staring at the cracks that ran along his ceiling, Merlin’s thoughts wandered to Ealdor and how much sound seemed to exist within the pocket of a village on the edge of Essetir’s borders. While certainly not the bustling hub of a city, Ealdor had had its own distinct sound; an asynchronous clamor of disgruntled livestock and work-worn people calling out to each other over small fences and roads. At night, the clicking of cicadas generated a cacophony that lasted long till the early hours of morning. There was a predictable ebb and flow to it all, and nothing, Merlin thought, like the foreign silence of a stone citadel emptied of its people. 

So often teeming with life, the courtyard outside Merlin’s window was the heart of Camelot’s castle and citizens. It was there that workers passed to sell their wares, where knights saddled before a crusade, and where royalty met foreign visitors on the steps of its front door. For it to be so empty, so still, was unnatural - like the kingdom had been seeped of its life force. It was only as he had gotten older that Merlin came to understand the stifling weight of this silence.

Merlin’s ears strained against this void as he continued to the trace patterns on his ceiling. He had long since blown out the candle at his bedside, the shadows under his window shifting with the slow, moving light of the moon. He must have been laying there for hours, yet sleep continued to evade him. Merlin dreaded what would greet him in the morning, like having to wrestle the king out of his bed when Merlin would no doubt be just as asleep on his feet. Merlin’s lips frowned at the thought.

A heaving gasp shattered the silence.

Merlin’s eyes snapped open, his body rigid as his heart started to pound. He waited anxiously for the sound again, but for long, stretched seconds there was nothing. Only the heavy weight of silence. 

Merlin forced himself to relax, consciously easing the tension along his shoulders and spine where goosebumps had risen. A cat, he thought, it’s just a cat that wandered from the lower town. Merlin had heard their yowls outside his window before. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against his pillow.

There was another gasp this time. It was wet and heaving, shuddering with a breath that was unmistakably human.

Merlin shot up, adrenaline coursing through him and making his fingers tremble. He tensed as he tried to listen to the sounds outside his window over the pounding of his heart.

It was sobs, he thought, like a person crying. Whoever they were, Merlin could start to make out the feminine lilt of the woman's cries as they shuddered out of her and echoed around the empty courtyard. Merlin felt himself relax just a tad as the sound that startled him became more familiar, something he could recognize. Just as fast, however, he felt a new burst of worry over what may have caused the woman to be crying so late in the night.

Merlin tugged off his blankets, his feet silent as he padded over the cold wooden floor of his room. When he looked out the window, it was to see the empty tomb of Camelot’s courtyard, distant torches reflecting off silver walls and cobbled floors. There was enough light to make out the dark spot of a huddled figure at the front of the castle’s steps.

The woman was wrapped in a dark cloak, obscuring her face from Merlin’s view. Yet, he could still make out her hands as she reached out to something in front of her. Even from far away, Merlin could see how each of her cries trembled throughout her. Her sobs echoed into the emptiness around her, an obstruction to the quiet of the night. Merlin watched as they only grew with her panic till the figure was keeling with them, rocking her whole body in a cruel resemblance of rhythm. Her hands scrubbed at something in a bucket, the movements frantic. Whatever she was holding, it was dark as she dipped it in the bucket. Water splashed out the sides, slapping abrupt and violent against the stone. 

Watching her, Merlin recognized the panic in the woman’s movements, as if she was racing against time, as if something were coming for her. Merlin’s heart picked up and he quickly turned away, her cries growing fainter. They disappeared completely when he hurried out of the apothecary, a cloak wrapped haphazardly around him as he arrived minutes later to the front doors of the castle. When he looked out to greet the woman, there was nothing.

No woman, no bucket of water, no cloth in her hands.

Only silence.

Merlin scanned the courtyard for minutes in vain to find the woman and offer his help, but it was like she had vanished, as if she had never been there at all. Shaking his head, Merlin hesitantly returned to his room for the night.

. . .

  
Merlin awoke the next morning with blurry eyes and a bodily ache that came from little sleep. Outside his window, he could already hear the bustle of people in the courtyard again, preparing for the labors of the day. The voices that let out cheers of early morning greetings made Merlin feel warm again, still unsettled by what he had heard the night before.

Gaius had met him with a bowl of warm porridge as well, even topping it with a sprinkle of cinnamon despite the spice’s rarity in the kingdom’s kitchens. Merlin had savored it with gratitude, giving his mentor a smile as he left to wake the king. 

Arthur had been grumpy, as Merlin expected. He had groused as Merlin pulled him from his bed, barely managing to wrangle him into armor for the morning’s training. Afterwards, Merlin had delivered him his breakfast and a warm bath before attending a day’s worth of council meetings where Merlin strained to stay awake. By the time he was helping Arthur get to bed, he was swaying on his feet.

Merlin hummed as he struggled to unclasp Arthur’s red ceremonial cloak from his shoulders. Under his hands, Arthur continued from the discussions of the council meetings, his expression thoughtful in the warm firelight of the hearth.

“-and I’m not sure if we’ll have enough grain for the rest of the winter, at least, not if we distribute those portions to the lower towns. What do you think?”

Merlin hummed again, his fingers uncharacteristically fumbling as he tried to untangle the thread where the cloak connected over Arthur’s chest. He narrowed his eyes at it, mentally cursing Arthur and his affinity for fiddling with things when he was bored.

“Merlin, are you even listening?” Arthur’s voice was clearly annoyed, bouncing off the chamber walls and back at Merlin from all angles.

“Yes, sire,” he replied automatically. With his tongue peeking out, Merlin grinned when he finally got the clasp undone, helping Arthur take the thick fabric off his shoulders before scrutinizing the disjointed clasp in closer detail. The thread had been stretched beyond its original stitching, making the cloak hang lower on Arthur’s shoulders than formal. Merlin would have to fix it.

“No, you’re not,” Arthur’s voice interrupted Merlin’s thoughts again. 

Merlin scowled but his heart wasn’t really in it, his thoughts befuddled as Arthur took the red cloak from Merlin’s hands and draped it over the back of the chair. He reached out and used his palm to lift Merlin’s gaze, his eyes uncharacteristically soft and concerned in the orange glow of the fireplace. Merlin felt himself deflate, his body inching towards Arthur’s before finally melting against him, his forehead pressed against Arthur’s shoulder.

“You’re tired.” Arthur’s words were quiet and soft next to Merlin’s ears, an observation rather than a question or accusation for which Merlin was thankful. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Merlin admitted, his answer muttered into the soft fabric of Arthur’s sleeve. 

“State matters on your mind?” Arthur teased. It was done in a whisper, and Merlin felt a hand thread its way through the hair at the nape of his neck, rubbing gentle circles that eased more of his tension away. In his relaxed daze, Merlin felt a pang of his original worry at Arthur’s question, but it was muted now in the warm privacy of Arthur’s chambers.

“S’was a woman in the courtyard,” Merlin slurred, fatigue pulling down at his muscles. His brows knitted together, “She was crying,” he said slowly. He felt Arthur pause for a moment, before the relaxing motions resumed.

“In the courtyard you say? There were no reports from the patrol,” Arthur said. Merlin felt hands guide him towards the bed in the center of the room, “It must have just been a dream.”

There was a tug at Merlin’s waist, and he raised his arms in reflex as the shirt was pulled over his head. There was a tussle when his arms got caught in the sleeves, the two of them struggling before Merlin was able to tug the cloth off, cheeks ablaze and hair falling in his eyes as he glared at Arthur.

“You know, this is supposed to be my job. I should be doing this to you,” Merlin grumbled, ignoring the growing smirk on Arthur’s face.

“ _You_ can barely stand up,” Arthur answered. To prove his point, he pushed at Merlin’s chest, sending him sprawling across the bed’s side despite his half-hearted protests. Arthur ignored them, kneeling down and helping Merlin out of his shoes and trousers. Merlin flinched when one of Arthur’s sleepshirts hit him in the face, the nights having grown colder as winter edged closer.

“What are you doing?” Merlin sighed, although he already knew the answer. He felt the bed dip under Arthur’s added weight. It was a game they played, and by now Merlin had grown to know the motions and performed them with the familiarity and comfort of routine. 

“You’re not making it back to Gaius’s tonight,” Arthur said simply. He shifted under the covers, turning onto his side with a creak of the mattress, “Stay here. I can’t have you falling asleep in the corridor.” A hand slid across the sheets to seek out Merlin’s with a slow gentleness that made Merlin’s heart ache.

“I need to wake up early to gather herbs for Gaius,” Merlin complained. Arthur huffed, pushing at Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin followed the motion, turning onto his side as he felt Arthur curl around him, an arm sliding across his chest to pull him closer.

“Well I need someone to keep my bed warm. And I’m the king,” Arthur mumbled against his ear, tacking on the last point as an afterthought. Merlin leaned back into the embrace, dragging his foot over Arthur’s calf.

“I’ll go get George then,” he whispered. He puffed out a laugh when Arthur blindly tried to slap him. When Arthur mumbled to him to shut up and go to bed, it was with the warm exhales of a chuckle and the sound of a smile around his words. Merlin reveled in their closeness, listening to the sounds of the crackling fire and Arthur’s slow breaths next to his own. Here, there was no silence, he thought.  
This was a relief, and he soon fell into dreams.

. . .

There was a sob.

Merlin snapped awake, his eyes opening to darkness. For a moment, he was disoriented, unsure of where he was until he felt the familiar weight of Arthur’s arm over his chest. The fire had burned out during the night, and Merlin had to blink to remember what had awoken him. 

There was another sob, one equally as pained and choked as those he had heard the night before. Merlin stilled, suddenly feeling the chill despite Arthur’s body next to his and the expensive weight of the king's sheets compared to his own. He tried to close his eyes, putting faith in Arthur’s claim that what he had heard was just a dream, except -

Except there it was again. 

Merlin’s eyes locked to Arthur’s windows, the anguished wails of the woman unmistakable against the empty canvas of the night. Merlin slowly moved Arthur’s arm off of him, stepping closer towards the room’s paneled windows. 

They had fogged against the chill of the night, and behind them all Merlin could see was blackness. When his eyes adjusted, he saw his own wide-eyed expression in them, startling for a moment before cursing himself for being so jumpy. When he placed his palm against the glass, it was like ice under his touch, sending shivers down his arm and through his spine.

The window creaked open, the sound like ice cracking throughout the night yet the woman’s cries did not stop. Merlin peered over the ledge, his eyes falling to the dark figure below him only a few floors down. Again, she lay huddled by the castle’s stairs, a wash bucket at her feet. 

Closer this time, Merlin watched with confused fascination as the woman dunked the cloth in her arms back into the bucket. Her hands were stained dark and Merlin squinted at them, his body aching in sympathy as another choked gasp escaped around the phlegm caught in her throat. Her grief was unmistakable, Merlin thought, the kind that was reserved only for the dead.

Merlin’s eyes widened when he saw the woman pull out the sopping cloth she had been scrubbing. Even in the dark of the night, Merlin could make out the deep dark red embedded in the fabric and how it dripped down her arms. Her hands and nails were stained with it, the color leaking as she wrung it out with a shudder.

It was covered in blood.

Merlin’s heart stuttered as the woman suddenly lifted her face. His whole body froze as their eyes met, the woman’s face so white it was almost transparent, tangles of pale hair smeared across her face as if wet. 

But - but it was her eyes, her pale, grey eyes that stared at him, that penetrated him with a desperation that made Merlin want to recoil. Tears brimmed under reddened lids and she stared up and through him as if she couldn’t see him at all. They stayed locked like that, long enough for Merlin to feel as if he had been dunked in bone-chilled water. For a wild second, Merlin was reminded of the deer from Arthur’s hunting trips, and how they froze when they came across the pulled string of a bow.

Right before the arrow hit its mark.

The woman looked away and Merlin physically stumbled under its absence. She was looking down again, whimpering as she scrubbed harder at the maroon cloth, red staining the skin past her wrists and up her arms.

Merlin lurched away from the window, heart and blood pounding in his ears as he rushed to Arthur’s side.

“ _Arthur,_ Arthur wake up,” he hissed, and shook Arthur's sleeping form with growing panic. Arthur blinked a few times before Merlin could see him register the fear in Merlin’s voice, his whole body tensing as if preparing for a fight. He pushed aside the blankets, leveling Merlin with a stare even as he stumbled slightly from sleep.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Arthur demanded.

“The woman,” Merlin gasped. He pulled Arthur towards the window, mind still reeling at the image of the blood staining the girl’s arms. “She was crying again, I saw her,” he whispered, suddenly afraid that the woman might overhear them, despite the idea being almost laughably impossible. 

Arthur glanced towards the window. Merlin watched as he steadied himself, pulled back his shoulders, and strode forward with careful steps. With a hand, he pushed aside the paneled glass, peering down into the courtyard, and Merlin cringed at what he may see. 

Arthur was motionless before he turned back to Merlin, his face carefully blank. When he took a step forward, it was done with the same trepidation as if approaching a spooked horse. 

“Merlin,” Arthur started softly, “There’s no one out there.” 

“Are you _blind?”_ Merlin snapped, his fear making him volatile. He lashed out again, “Arthur, now is not the time for jokes, she clearly needs _help.”_

He couldn’t wrap his mind around why Arthur was stalling when the woman’s cries continued to echo in the courtyard below. Her anguish was real, Merlin was sure of it - he could feel it deep in his own chest as if the screams came from his very own. Her gasps were so loud now it felt like they rattled against his ear drums and his hands flew up to block out the noise, the grief, the desperation. Distantly, he heard Arthur calling his name but it was muted under the roaring of his own blood as it rushed through him.

“Just, just make it stop, make her _stop,”_ he begged. He rushed towards the window to close it, but faltered when his eyes fell on the empty courtyard. 

He froze, his hands slowly lowering as the cries stopped as abruptly as they had come. He gazed down at where the woman had been. Now, there was nothing - not even puddles of water that had spilled from her frenzied cleaning. He felt Arthur shift at his side, looking over his shoulder.

“See, there’s nothing there.”

Merlin opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt Arthur slowly wrap his arms around him, guiding him away from the window and back towards the bed. When they both laid down under the covers, Merlin doing so mechanically, he caught sight of the barely concealed panic in Arthur’s eyes. Merlin felt his heart clench at the idea of Arthur being worried over him, and he forced himself to calm down, taking slow and deep breaths in the silence between them.

“I-I’ll talk to Gaius tomorrow,” he promised, his voice trembling only slightly. He cleared his throat, giving Arthur a weary smile despite the tremors of confusion and fear. He reached across the bed and clasped Arthur’s hand in a sure grip, giving it a squeeze. He felt Arthur squeeze back.

“It’s probably just nightmares,” he offered, and he felt more than saw the slow nod Arthur gave him in return. Merlin didn’t need to guess if Arthur believed him or not. He could hear the doubt in his own words clear enough.

. . .

The next morning Merlin awoke to find their positions had changed throughout the night, Merlin now wrapped around Arthur. He pulled himself away reluctantly just as the sun was starting to rise. Outside the window, birds could be heard chirping and he quickly relit the fire to restore the warmth in Arthur’s chambers as left to gather the herbs Gaius requested. He had been specific on how the flowers only bloomed at dawn, and Merlin was able to find them easily enough to bring back to the apothecary. 

When Merlin returned it was to see his mentor already up and moving despite the early hour. Gaius offered him a smile from where he stood crouched over a bubbling cauldron.

“Good morning, my boy. There’s porridge on the counter if you’d like.” 

Merlin smiled in return, placing the necessary herbs at Gaius’s worktable before walking to serve himself a bowl. 

Gaius had never bombarded Merlin with questions on where he disappeared to at night when he wasn’t in his chambers. By now, the two had come to an unspoken understanding of what Merlin and Arthur had become to one another, and Merlin appreciated the privacy Gaius afforded them. He had been especially grateful in the beginning when it had all felt so new and extraordinary, yet still so fragile, and Merlin had been on edge about when it would all come crashing down.

That had been a long time ago though, and Merlin’s comfort and assurance in their relationship had matured since then. 

However, something new now occupied his thoughts.

“Gaius, have you seen a woman in the courtyard these past few nights?”

Merlin watched anxiously as he saw Gaius’s posture tighten. He turned slowly towards him, speaking carefully, “No, I can’t say I have.”

Merlin sighed, going into simple detail about what he had seen. He described the woman and the cloth she seemed to be cleaning, stumbling on how to convey the sorrow in her cries. 

“It’s like I’m the only one who can see or hear her,” Merlin said desperately. “I don’t know if it’s my magic, or because I’m just imagining it…” His voice trailed off uncertainly. 

Gaius gazed thoughtfully at a point in the table before getting up. When he returned, it was to offer Merlin a potion.

“A sleep draught,” he explained. “Take it tonight. If it is just nightmares, this should help ease them. But, if not, this will at least give us time to research. I’ve never heard of such an apparition before, but I will consult my books once I’m done with Lady Valora’s medicine.” 

Merlin eyed the draught with trepidation before accepting it. He thanked Gaius, leaving for the kitchens to retrieve Arthur his own morning meal.

. . .

The kitchens were always busy at this morning hour. Bread was pulled from the shelves of the massive oven, and Merlin was offered one from the top for Arthur’s breakfast since it lacked the burnt edges and chewy centers of others that had less ideal placement among the concentrated heat. The bread was airy and white when Merlin sliced into it, unlike the dense and brown loaves he had known in Ealdor.

Spiced slabs of meat and dried fruits were added to Arthur’s plate, along with soft cubes of white cheese. Merlin waited as one of the serving girls went to look for the watered wine from the cellars to serve with Arthur’s meal. As Merlin waited, he nabbed some of the food from Arthur’s plate. The dried fig he tried tasted sweet yet spicy on his palette, notes of nutmeg and cinnamon overwhelming in their volume that Merlin actually gagged. 

He glanced up to see one of the cook’s assistants staring, scandalized at him for stealing from the king’s plate. Merlin recognized her and fumbled with the tray, wiping his hand conspicuously on his trousers as he offered her his best smile.

“Good morning, Lynn.”

She sniffed, gazing down at him from her nose. “You look like death,” she offered. 

Merlin cringed, rubbing at the bags still under his eyes. He had barely slept after waking last night, and he was sure it showed on his features.

“I couldn’t sleep, it seems to be becoming a habit,” he tried to joke, but the playful tone fell flat. His thoughts turned to the mysterious woman and her strangled screams of sorrow. He shook his head and leaned towards Lynn, lowering his voice as she rolled her shoulders into the dough she was kneading.

“Did you happen to hear a woman last night?” he asked, “She was crying, and washing something I think.”

Lynn stilled, yet her eyes remained fixed on the dough under her hands.

“...What did she look like?” she asked cautiously, and Merlin couldn’t help the leap of hope that sprung in his chest.

“She...she was pale,” he recalled. Her face was branded in Merlin’s mind but he winced thinking about it, haunted by the memory. “She was washing this cloth and I swear it was covered in _blood.”_

Lynn froze.

“I wouldn’t know of such things,” she hissed. Merlin flinched at her tone, eyes falling to Lynn’s white knuckles where she had stopped kneading the dough, but instead was clinging to it in a way that had it oozing over her fingers. Merlin wasn’t sure where he had gone wrong and he scrambled to fix it.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he hastened, “I just need someone to tell me they’ve seen her too. Please, if you know anything, I won’t get you into trouble, you can trust me.”

“I told you, _I don’t know anything,”_ she spit at him. She whirled on him, Merlin stepping back and raising his hands when he caught sight of her wild expression. Her eyes were wide as they darted around them, her chest heaving slightly under her flour-covered apron. It was suddenly clear to Merlin.

Lynn was afraid. 

Despite this, he tried to reach out one more time. “Please, I just want to figure out what’s going on,” he pleaded. Lynn recoiled from his outstretched hand as if it would burn her, scrambling to knead the dough back into lump-shaped balls as she then gathered them frantically onto a tray.

“I’ll tell you only this, Merlin,” she whispered. When she met his eyes, hers were earnest. “Sometimes, it’s best to leave things alone.”

From beside them, the maid arrived with Arthur’s watered down wine. Lynn averted her gaze and stepped away before Merlin could ask her more questions, disappearing with the dough into the crowds of the kitchen. Merlin watched her go with dismay, but thanked the girl with a small smile before returning to Arthur’s chambers.

When he walked through the doors, he was greeted with the sight of Arthur already dressed and seated, scanning over a paper in front of him. Arthur glanced up, brightening when their eyes met, yet Merlin could still feel the tension from the previous night, as if Arthur were handling him like one of the visiting royals he didn’t want to offend. 

“I’m _fine,”_ Merlin said pointedly, rolling his eyes as he presented Arthur his meal. Arthur crossed his arms, not so much as glancing down at the food.

“Is that what Gaius said?” He raised an eyebrow.

“He agreed they were just nightmares,” Merlin waved, glossing over the details. He reached down and grabbed another dried fig, meeting Arthur’s eyes in defiance as he popped it in his mouth while trying not to grimace at the taste.

“Is that really all he said?” Arthur asked skeptically.

“Good as new,” Merlin chirped around a mouthful of fig. Arthur’s face scrunched.

“Don’t chew with your mouth open, it’s disgusting.”

“I thought you liked what I did with my mouth,” Merlin teased, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he leaned over the table. 

“Not when it leads to you spouting more gibberish.” Arthur smirked as he pushed up and away from the table. “Now help me get dressed, I have a council meeting soon and unlike _you,_ I cannot afford to be late.”

Merlin glowered, “Prat.”

“Heard that.”

Merlin rolled his eyes but went to help Arthur get dressed, which turned out to be much longer and more complicated than he thought with Arthur trying to snack from his breakfast plate the whole time. Merlin had to swerve around handfuls of dried meats and dripping jam on bread as he helped Arthur into his ceremonial robes. 

When he finished tightening the belt around Arthur’s waist with only a few jokes about the number of holes it took, Merlin leaned away to scan Arthur’s outfit. Under his gaze, Arthur seemed to stand just a bit taller, steeling his chin.

Merlin felt a familiar swell of pride in Arthur’s presence. It wasn’t just the clothes, he thought, although the rich velvet fabric and the crown that lay on his temple were unmistakably impressive. But it was also the way in which Arthur wore them, he thought, the way he straightened his shoulders and met the gaze steadily of those around him no matter their rank or background. It made Merlin immensely proud to be serving under him - Arthur, his king.

Merlin couldn’t help but chuckle, however, when his eyes landed on the few crumbs still on Arthur’s chin from his breakfast. A feeling of fondness flooded through him at sight of the imperfection. It was a metaphorical chink in the armor of Arthur’s kingly image - a reminder that at his core, Arthur was very much still human, still a man who was weighed down by his own faults, fears, and insecurities. Merlin smiled as he cupped Arthur’s cheek, using his thumb to sweep away the crumbs with affection that came from reveling in the fact that _Merlin_ was one of the few to see Arthur this way, that Arthur trusted him with this version of himself. 

Feeling reckless, Merlin leaned in to press his lips to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. It was soft and featherlight until Arthur met the pressure with his own, emboldening the kiss into something heavier that Merlin could feel all the way down to his toes in delicious shivers. Whether it was the sun coming through the paneled windows or Arthur’s arm snaking its way along Merlin’s waist, Merlin suddenly felt warm and giddy in a way he hadn’t in days. 

He reluctantly pulled away, laughing breathlessly when Arthur’s lips chased after his own. Merlin turned away from Arthur’s pout to pick up the Camelot red cloak, the symbolic dragon embroidered magnificently at its center. He lifted the cape and draped it over Arthur’s shoulders, frowning down at the still stretched-out clasp when he went to clip it.

“Hey,” Arthur said softly. “What’s wrong?”

“The clasp is pulled loose,” Merlin muttered, “I’ll have to ask Gwen how to fix it later.”

Arthur huffed out a dramatic sigh before placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I meant, Merlin, about last night.” The words were said pointedly, and Merlin reluctantly dropped the clasp to meet Arthur’s gaze. He recognized the same look of concern as before, and he reached up to grasp the hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He took a shuddering breath.

“I’m… scared. I’m really scared, Arthur,” he admitted, and the words were said so breathlessly Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur had even heard him. He must have though, because he felt another squeeze to his shoulder and he willed himself to continue, to lay out the truth to which Arthur deserved, even if it pained Merlin to do so.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind a bit,” he whispered with a watery laugh, but there was no humor behind it. Arthur searched his face, and Merlin wasn’t sure what he found but whatever it was caused him to straighten again.

“I promise, we will find out what’s happening," he said seriously, "You have my word.” 

Merlin felt something inside him flutter at the earnest tone behind Arthur’s declaration. Nonetheless, he tried to roll his eyes.

“I have faced far worse than this, just so you know.”

Arthur pulled his hand away with a laugh. “Oh, I have no doubt of your ability to attract trouble. In fact, I think it may be the one thing you’re actually good at.”

“You’re too kind, my lord,” Merlin said drily. He went back to meddle with the clasp over Arthur’s heart when a gloved head reached up to still his. Merlin’s gaze flicked up again to see Arthur looking a bit awkward.

“You’re not alone now, Merlin. You can depend on me to help you this time.”

The words were said softly yet they hit Merlin like a weight against his chest. A sigh escaped without his consent. He opened his mouth to reply a number of things to that, but he stopped. And swallowed.

“Thank you, Arthur.” 

The words were a bit shaky and Merlin would refuse to admit that there may have been any moisture in his eyes when he said them. But they were genuine and true, and when Merlin looked up it was to see Arthur giving him one of those rare soft smiles that lifted the very corners of his lips. 

There was a knock at the door, and the two reflexively jumped apart. Arthur cleared his throat.

“I believe that is for my council meeting,” he said stiffly. 

Merlin gave him a final glance over, brushing off invisible lint just for an excuse to touch him again, to prolong the bubble of time they had before it was back to their regular duties. Arthur seemed to sense what Merlin was doing because he offered him another smile, this one far more playful and reminiscent of his younger self.

“I expect my chainmail to be polished before I’m back,” he demanded. Merlin snorted, both of them aware that Merlin enjoyed the task and its repetitive, rhythmic work.

“Yes, sire,” he nodded with a wink.

The two grinned before Arthur stepped away. Merlin watched as he walked towards the doors, the red cloak and its golden Pendragon crest gleaming behind him.

. . .

Gwen’s house in the lower town was cozy, Merlin thought. It reminded him of his home in Ealdor in the simplicity of its layout and the charm that came with it. Looking around, he could see pieces of Gwen reflected in its humble decorations, like the purple flowers on the counter, the blacksmithing tools of her father by the door, and the green cloak Morgana had given her when the material had run thin.

It was strange too, being so far from the castle yet still within Camelot’s walls, Merlin thought. But he was quickly distracted when Gwen placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him, sitting across with a cup of her own. 

Merlin had accompanied Gwen home around late afternoon once he had told her about Arthur’s cloak. With her own sewing kit at home, Gwen had offered to teach him the basics of needlework and repair, spending hours showing him different tools, threads, and the techniques on how to stitch properly so the lines faded into the fabric. Merlin had copied her work the best he could before declaring he would need more practice, and in celebration of his progress Gwen had offered him tea before his return to the castle. 

When Merlin pulled the mug closer, he inhaled the scent of crushed mint. 

“Oh this is lovely,” he sighed. He took a relished sip, opening his eyes to see Gwen gazing at him with a funny look and raising her eyebrow.

“That bad of a week?” she joked. Merlin tried to laugh, but the ebb and flow of his fatigue hit him again with little surprise.

“I don’t even know where to begin, Gwen,” he told her honestly. “I’m not sure if you’d even believe me. I’m not sure if I even believe myself at this point.”

Gwen’s brow furrowed and she quickly reached out a hand, her palm a warm and steady weight on his own. “You can tell me anything Merlin, you know that.”

Merlin gazed at the table, rubbing a thumb along the side of his cup as he rolled his thoughts over. Finally, he sighed, looking up to carefully gage her reaction.

“I keep seeing this woman…” he began. It felt strange, suddenly, to recount his memories of the woman in Gwen’s small cottage. Merlin became aware of the silence outside the windows, how the rest of the city had already returned to their homes for the day. How the streets were now empty. Silent. It makes the stories Merlin wants to tell suddenly feel harsher, as if examined under a bright light and he finds himself wanting to hide them away. 

But Gwen just nods, and he takes that as the encouragement he needs. “It’s only been at night, but I keep hearing her in the courtyard and she’s … she’s crying. No, she’s _wailing.”_

The words come out a bit stuttered, Merlin feeling self conscious despite Gwen’s earnest gaze. On the table, the candle sputters between them, causing the shadows of the room to shift. Merlin only stops because he feels her hand tighten around his own.

“What...what is this woman doing?” she asks. And Merlin can’t help but notice the way Gwen asks the question, how her mouth shapes the words as if she already knows the answer and is dreading him to speak.

“She’s washing clothes, but they’re covered in blood,” he says softly, confused. The words feel too harsh and too loud in the quiet room. They break the surrounding silence like an act of violence. Merlin feels a sudden pain, and he glances down at the white-knuckled grip on his hand.

“Gwen-” he says, panicked, but unsure why.

She swipes her hand away, hiding it under the table as she shakes her head.

“I-It’s nothing, really,” she sputters. Merlin’s heart clenches at the words, and again he feels a frantic hope that he may have his answers.

“No, something’s wrong, _tell me.”_

She takes a shuddering breath, glancing towards the closed drapes over her windows.

“They’re just wives’ tales, they don’t actually mean anything,” she says, and while her tone is flippant Merlin notices the way her voice trembles, the way her hands flutter at her sleeves as if restless.

“What do you mean?” 

Gwen huffs, but her frustration seems directed not at Merlin, but at something else. She fiddles with her tea cup.

“They’re just stories we’re told as children, to keep us from getting into trouble or sneaking away at night.”

His brow furrowed, “But I’ve never heard of them.”

“That may be for the best,” Gwen mutters darkly, “I’m not sure what it’s like outside of Camelot, but they’re popular among the lower towns. I often had to hold Elyan’s hand when we were children because they made him so afraid of the dark.”

The silence that falls between them should be filled with laughter, but Merlin can only feel a growing sense of dread. Gwen’s words brush at something in Merlin’s mind, but every time he feels he’s close the thoughts slip through his fingers.

“Tell me the stories, Gwen.”

The words feel wrong somehow, although Merlin struggled to understand why. It was similar to a feeling he had when he and Will had been kids, staring at the peach tree in old man Simmon’s yard. _I dare you to go pick one,_ he had jeered, jabbing Will with a pointy elbow. _I betcha won’t, because you’re too scared._

Across from him, Gwen wiped away an invisible hair from her face as she leaned closer, her lips barely touching around her words with how softly she spoke.

“They’re just childrens' stories,” she insisted, but Merlin felt as if she were trying to convince herself, “but … I’ll tell you what my father told me.” 

She took a steadying breath, “The world is filled with magical creatures, he had said,” Gwen’s voice carried a wistful tone, and Merlin felt an ache of sympathy as her gaze became unfocused as she fell back into old memories. “Some of these creatures are pure, like the unicorn. Some are filled with great power, like the dragon. And some,” she stuttered, “are filled with great anguish, like the banshee.”

“The banshee?” Merlin repeated. There was a sudden waft of air that rippled under the cabin’s door, making the candle’s flame dance and cause shadows to leap across the walls. Merlin froze, his heart pounding in his ears as he looked to Gwen, the candle lighting dark shadows under her heavy eyes.

“The banshees are spirits,” she explained in a soft whisper. “They travel across the earth, stuck between the world of the living and resting place of the dead.”

“That’s awful,” Merlin blurted and Gwen gave him a weary smile in return.

“That’s what I said too. And I remember how my father had looked me in the eye...I had never seen him look so sad...and he had told me, no Gwen, the tragedy of the banshee is not with what it is, but the burden it must carry.”

Merlin felt a shiver run down his spine. He licked his lips, “What is the burden?”

Gwen clenched her lips, her hand clutching her skirt before wrapping it again around the mug with a note of resignation. 

“They bear the knowledge of those who will die,” she explained. Her gaze was distant. “Those chosen by fate. Those destined with an untimely death.” 

Merlin felt his stomach twist, but he had to know, so he forced out his next words, “What do you mean?”

“There was a little girl in the house next to mine, when I was growing up. Her name was Carling,” Gwen explained slowly, pulling the words with care from her memory. “She lived there with her parents and older sister. Their mother was a seamstress, and I remember she always had ribbons attached to her apron for when she was sewing,” Gwen recalled with a smile. She took a sip of her tea, the silence settling in her absence. When she spoke, it was still in the same soft tone.

“One night, Carling came home crying so loud she woke my family and I next door. She had been distraught, just, inconsolable, saying that she had seen a banshee. She...she screamed that her mother was going to die.”

Merlin's heart hammered in his chest. At his sides, his hands were clenched in fists. “Why...” he paused to swallow, “Why would a little girl think that?”

Gwen refused to meet his eyes, dragging a finger tip down the line of her cup.

“The thing is, that next week, her mother caught an illness that was running through the town that year. She had laid in bed for two days before passing.”

“So Carling had been right.” It wasn’t a question. Yet Merlin needed to hear the answer.

“Oh Merlin, they’re just child’s tales,” Gwen exclaimed, but there was a frazzledness to her demeanor Merlin had rarely seen before.

“You never answered me. You never said why Carling would have known her mother would die.”

Gwen gulped. The air around them felt stifling and oppressive because, Merlin thought frantically, of the silence. That same, heavy, weighted silence. It choked him, suffocated him, made him unable to move. When Gwen finally looked at him, it was with a deep and knowing sadness.

“She had seen the banshee cleaning her mother’s apron in a bucket of water,” she whispered, the words coming out in a hush. “That is the banshee’s greatest tragedy. They mourn those they know will die, and wash their clothes in retribution, yet they can never escape their sorrow. That’s why...” Gwen swallowed, her voice thin, “...that’s why you must never follow the weeping sounds at night. You must never look, Merlin, because the weight of that knowledge...” She shuddered, shaking her head before gazing at him with sorrow-filled eyes, “...it’s a burden even the supernatural cannot bear.”

Merlin felt the last of the air escape him. For a charged moment, the two sat in stillness and Merlin looked back as Gwen gazed at him as though she already knew all that he could not say. When he blinked, it was to look down at his tea, cold and untouched. 

He swallowed.

His throat clicked.

“I...I think I need to go home,” Merlin finally said.

. . .

Merlin stumbled his way back.

He had left Gwen’s abruptly, thanking her for the tea and her sewing kit despite the words feeling hollow in his throat. She had hugged him goodbye, clutching him with extra care that he dared not think about, as she whispered for him to be safe. 

He had smiled. Assured her he was fine.

Leaving Gwen’s house had been like jumping into a frozen lake; another dark abyss. While Gwen’s home had been golden and warm, their laughter filling its space in those early hours, the night had since grown still.

 _They travel across the earth,_ Gwen’s voice wafted through his mind, _stuck between the world of the living and resting place of the dead._

Dark windows gazed down upon him as he walked, witnesses to his fervor. In the dark, Merlin tripped and stumbled over a crack in the road. He caught himself, his heart beating a fast and heavy rhythm in his chest.

_Their mother was a seamstress, and I remember she always had ribbons attached to her apron for when she was sewing._

Gwen’s words danced through his head. In the darkness, Merlin’s vision started to swim.

_She had seen the banshee cleaning her mother’s apron in a bucket of water._

Hands. Flashes of hands. Hands stained deep red, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. But it’s never enough.

_They mourn those they know will die, and wash their clothes in retribution yet they can never escape their sorrow._

It’s never enough.

There are the screams, and Merlin can hear them so viscerally it takes him a moment to realize they’re not just in his head. His gaze snaps up, body stilling like that of a hare’s when it catches the scent of the wolf.

Ahead, near the stairs of the castle, a hunched figure sits. Her sobs wrack through her body. She huddles and rocks herself, gazing upwards, and Merlin realizes.

She’s gazing at Arthur’s room.

_They bear the knowledge of those who will die. Those chosen by fate. Those destined with an untimely death._

Merlin edges closer, and he can see now. He can see the cloth the woman wrings in her hands, the one she slaves over every night. It is a deep red color, like the red that stains her hands. The red that’s caught in the creases of her battered nails, the labor-worn calluses of her skin. 

It’s the red of Camelot’s crest.

_You must never follow the weeping sounds at night. You must never look, Merlin._

But he can’t help himself, can he? Because it’s Arthur, and it’s always been Arthur. And Merlin knows, somewhere deep, deep down in his chest, what he’ll see when he looks into the woman’s pail.

He steps closer, and the woman slowly raises her head. He meets her tear-stained gaze and he feels the sorrow within them. Distantly, he can hear sobs, but the woman’s mouth is shut, and she raises the red cloth to him.

_The weight of that knowledge...it’s a burden even the supernatural cannot bear._

Merlin recognizes the golden dragon etched on the fabric. The string of the clasp, pulled so tight that it’s now frayed. It needs to be cut, he thinks, or fixed.

He takes the cloth from the woman and feels the weight of its significance. It’s heavy, and it takes both hands to hold it, his muscles straining under the added volume of water. He looks down at his hands and sees the red on them.

Frantically, he pushes the cloak back into the bucket, and the dark water splashes back onto his sleeves and trousers, staining them copper, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, other than getting the blood out. He scrubs and he scrubs and he scrubs and the water turns redder, but still, the cloak remains tarnished. 

Next to him, the woman weeps, but her sobs are silent as she watches him. He scrubs harder, trying to remove the stains out of Arthur’s cloak through sheer will.

Distantly, he thinks he hears the sound of someone crying. They are cries filled with pain and anger; a futile condemnation of the cruel and unjust hands of fate. It hurts Merlin to listen, so he tunes them out to silence, and he scrubs to try and wash away the blood.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **Trigger warnings:** descriptions of blood, brief mention of a minor character's death off screen, and moments of a character questioning their sanity
> 
> Inspiration for the lore of the banshee came from the [Spiderwick Chronicles](https://spiderwick.fandom.com/wiki/Banshee) series.
> 
> Also, please let me know if I missed any relevant trigger/archive warnings - I'd be happy to add them! :)  
> 


End file.
